


maybe the sky isn't falling

by fleurmatisse



Series: OCDean [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dean Winchester Has OCD - Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Established Relationship, Insomniac Castiel (Supernatural), Librarian Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:50:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17575025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurmatisse/pseuds/fleurmatisse
Summary: Dean couldn’t tell you when, exactly, Castiel became part of his non-routine routine, but the fact that Cas hasn’t responded to Dean’s last text about the stupid cat cafe near his motel sparks the worry Dean tries very hard to keep smothered in his chest.





	maybe the sky isn't falling

**Author's Note:**

> howdy! this fic includes obsessive thoughts from someone with (fairly mild) undiagnosed OCD. there's also a scene where someone is stitching up a wound.

Dean couldn’t tell you when, exactly, Castiel became part of his non-routine routine. Somewhere between cases, when he didn’t really want to hang around Bobby’s or go bother Sam in California, he started drifting back to Illinois like a moth to a flame. He met Cas on a case. There was a rugaru in town, surprisingly far north, and they quite literally ran into each other hours after Dean got to town. Cas was leaving the library where one of the victims worked and Dean was heading in to talk to whoever was in charge; turned out, that was Cas. By the time Dean tracked down the rugaru, it was already at Cas’ house, and by the time Dean got inside, it was already being burned in the backyard. Cas’ nose was broken in the fight along with two of his fingers, but he was alive, and he had killed the monster. Dean couldn’t really believe it. Then Cas had griped at him for his timing, and Dean knew then and there he was done for. 

What Dean can tell you is the moment he recognizes that Cas has become one of his people, on par with Bobby if not quite at the same level as Sam. (Hardly anyone comes close.) He’s in Oregon, just got done with a werewolf hunt, and realizes he hadn’t heard from Cas in over a week. He lost track of how long it had been, having spent so many days following one of the wolves back to their den, but now that he’s noticed, it’s all he can think about. They don’t talk every hour of every day or anything, but one of them will usually send a text about something they saw that reminded them of the other to varying degrees of insult. The fact that Cas hasn’t responded to Dean’s last text about the stupid cat cafe near his motel sparks the worry Dean tries very hard to keep smothered in his chest. 

He locks and unlocks his phone, looks at the date of the last text, locks the phone again. He stares at the dark screen reflecting the top of his face and the ceiling of the motel room, puts the phone in his pocket. He cleans up the room, trashing all signs of the case, and packs his clothes back in his bag. His hand hovers over his pocket. He’s not going to be weird; he’s just going to send another text. Maybe Cas just forgot to text him back, and getting a new text will garner a response.

Yeah. That makes sense. Sometimes he puts his phone down after he listens to a voicemail from another hunter and doesn’t remember to call back before they call again. 

_ I haven’t seen so many neck beards since I passed through Amish country. Why do people like Oregon again? _

After Dean hits send, he zips his phone in his bag and drops off his room key with the woman he doesn’t think has left since he got there. He puts the bag in the backseat of his car and then twists around in the driver’s seat to pull out his phone and repeat the locking and unlocking, tallying how long it’s been since he sent the message (barely 6 minutes). It’s just past noon here so it’s after 2 for Cas. He’s probably working. He really only leaves the library at night, even when Dean’s in town. It’s fine.

Dean will give it until he reaches Wyoming, a solid day-and-then-some of driving. That should give Cas enough time to answer, or enough time for Dean to rationalize some more so he doesn’t go full psycho on the guy.

Idaho comes and goes and the only person to contact Dean is Bobby, letting Dean know there’s a hunter who could use a hand in Ohio if he’ll be around. It is the third day since they’ve had contact; it has to be a coincidence, or else Bobby has figured out Dean’s routine and Dean can never face him again. That provides him a few minutes of relief before he latches back on to Cas, and what could’ve happened to Cas, and how he’s probably just freaking out over nothing, but you can never really be sure, Cas does forget to lock the doors all the time, and—

“God,  _ enough _ ,” he mutters. 

_ Is it?  _ his worry replies. 

Cas texts him back when he’s halfway across Wyoming, 14 hours into what became a mad dash back to Illinois. Dean reads the message ( _ Perhaps there is a growing Amish community in Beaverton. _ ) approximately twelve hundred times as he sits at a red light, unwilling to put his phone down in case it’s all in his head. It sounds like Cas. There’s no reason it wouldn’t be Cas. It’s fine. Cas is fine. 

Fine, fine, fine.

_ I’ll be in your neck of the woods in a couple days, _ he sends back. Cas replies after he’s started driving again, now to find somewhere to sleep.

_ :-) _

Yeah, that’s Cas. Dean doesn’t know anyone else that puts a nose in emoticons.

Crisis averted, he thinks, and that’s about as much thinking as he can handle until morning.

 

Here’s the thing: Dean’s not superstitious. He hunts monsters for Christ’s sake—he knows that most superstitions are bullshit. There are just some things he occasionally feels like he has to do, like wear his mom’s ring or the necklace Sam gave him when they were kids, or check in on everyone in a time period specific to them (twice a week every other week for Bobby; every Sunday and Thursday for Sam because those are his least busy days). It hadn’t occurred to him that Cas would join their ranks and need a day, mostly because they hadn’t gone that long without speaking yet. He refuses to pick a day, even while his brain tells him Thursday or Sunday would work for Cas, too, because that’s when the library is closed.

He’s just not going to start that again.

 

_ It’s fine, I’m fine, everything is fine, fine, fine.  _ Dean repeats it until it feels somewhat true, and then he says it some more, just to be sure. It’s easier to stitch himself up when his hands aren’t shaking so bad. The bathroom of this motel has probably seen worse. 

The worst part is that he knows better. Being distracted on a hunt is a deathwish, and even if the slice to his side isn’t the worst he’s ever had, he never would’ve let the shifter get the drop on him if he wasn’t such an idiot. He’d thought the hunt itself would be the distraction; he knew where the shifter was hiding out, he would surprise it, kill it, no big deal. Instead, he’d been forcing himself not to take his phone out of his pocket to check if Sam had answered him yet, to the point where he barely heard the shifter come up behind him. A second later and the knife would’ve ended up buried in his spine.

He cleans up as best he can without bending, decides to just trash his clothes rather than work all the blood out, and finally eases himself onto the bed as it’s starting to get light out. Another foolish decision, because his gun is across the room. He gets up, grabs it, puts it under the pillow. Then he gets up again to retrieve his phone. Again to check the lock. Again to get more gauze because he’s bleeding again. Again to check the door. Again, again, again.

 

No matter how many times Dean brings it up, Cas still leaves his doors unlocked. Even if he only does it when Dean’s on his way, there’s a flower pot on the porch with an extra key that Dean could use. Cas never seems very concerned.

He’s still up when Dean gets to Pontiac just past three in the morning. He glances up from his book, and Dean must look as terrible as he feels, because he closes the book entirely before he puts it down.

“You left your door unlocked again,” Dean says. He hovers in front of the door until— 

“You can lock it,” Cas says. 

Dean does, and then he kicks off his shoes and sets down his bag and joins Cas on the couch. His side is still at risk of reopening so he goes slow when Cas makes room for him to recline against his chest. If Cas notices, and Dean is sure he does, he doesn’t bring it up. He lets Dean be quiet, running fingers through his hair until Dean starts falling asleep. Cas kisses the side of his head and starts prodding him to get up.

“We’re too old to sleep on a couch,” Cas says when Dean grumbles a complaint.

“You’re too old,” Dean mutters, but Cas isn’t wrong, so he gets up and follows him back to his bed, dropping on the mattress while Cas goes about his nightly routines. He must’ve been reading all night if he hasn’t even brushed his teeth yet. Dean smiles at the thought. He manages to kick his jeans off and settle somewhat comfortably on his back, his side emitting a dull throb. 

Cas climbs into bed next to him, turns off the light, and shifts closer until he has his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean falls asleep while Cas is still getting comfortable.

 

Cas doesn’t keep a clock in his bedroom, so Dean has no idea when he wakes up, just that Cas has already gone to work. This he knows because of the post-it on his face covered with Cas’ scrawl asking him to come to the library for lunch (with lunch). His phone, which he’s able to dig out of the bag Cas must have moved upstairs for him, tells him it’s just past ten. 

He can’t remember the last time he slept for seven hours straight. 

He goes and makes coffee and drinks it just fast enough for it not to get cold before he finishes it. Usually when he does this, Cas is eating some fruit for breakfast and drinking enough coffee to fell a lesser man. (Dean is only half-joking when he says Cas’ caffeine addiction has a caffeine addiction.) Even without Cas around, Dean feels comfortable leaning against the kitchen counter, watching birds flock around Cas’ weirdass bird feeders. Cautiously he thinks,  _ I could get used to this _ . 

He washes his mug and goes back to the bedroom to grab fresh clothes and showers, and by the time he gets out it’s nearing eleven. He could head to the library already, then leave around noon to pick up lunch and go back, or he could stay and make lunch and kill some more time before he heads out. He considers the fact that Cas probably only got two hours of sleep and decides to make Cas’ favorite.

 

You’d think PB&Js were a finite resource the way Cas lights up when Dean hands over his lunch. Dean gets the same way over a burger, so he can’t really judge. Plus Cas kisses him for it, and Dean would never knock that. Cas closes his office door behind him, so Dean takes the opportunity to kiss him some more. He winces when Cas’ hand drifts from his back to his side. Cas pulls back and frowns at him.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” Dean says, but he doesn’t stop Cas lifting his shirt to see for himself. Dean had inspected the wound when he got out of the shower; aside from being a little red around the edges, it’s healing like it should. Cas’ hand hovers over it.

“You gave yourself stitches,” he says. “That isn’t nothing.”

“Well it didn’t kill me,” Dean says, which was the wrong thing judging by Cas’ deepening frown. Dean pulls his shirt down. “Seriously, Cas, don’t worry about it.”

Cas gives him a  _ look _ and sits at his desk. Dean fights the urge to apologize. He of all people knows when something is worrisome. He sits in the chair across from Cas, unable to help another wince. Cas doesn’t say anything about it. 

He doesn’t say anything, actually, until he’s eaten half of his sandwich. Dean asks him what he’s working on, and instead of answering, he says, “I am allowed to worry about you.”

Dean blinks. Cas looks like he’s willing to fight him about it, so Dean swallows the chip he stole and says, “Okay.”

Cas picks up the second half of his sandwich. “I’m trying to arrange for a compendium of Native lore to be sent from Springfield. The librarians there are strangely possessive; it isn’t even a first edition.”

“Those greedy bastards,” Dean says once his brain has caught up. He watches Cas work his way up to explaining the entire frustrating process and relaxes. He steals more of Cas’ chips, his own sandwich long gone, and smiles when Cas rolls his eyes so hard he leans back in his chair. This he could get used to, too

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the one by jukebox the ghost, which so helpfully came up on shuffle while i was posting  
> you can find me on tumblr at [winkingwinchesters](winkingwinchesters.tumblr.com) if that's your thing  
> (if dean's experience with ocd doesn't match up with your idea of it, that's fine! but i don't wanna hear about how he's too messy or whatever else to have ocd. ocd =/= neat freak.)  
> okay thanks bye


End file.
